Custos: Stalker Read online

  Custos: Stalker

  by

  Jake Aaron

  Copyright © 2015 Jake Aaron. Except as provided by the Copyright Act of 1998, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  A Custos Midquel

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  “Custos: Stalker’’ is a midquel. It occurs during Custos: Enemies Domestic.

  Dedicated to the unsung among us who do great good things that we never know about.

  Barbara Symanski was about to make the biggest mistake of her life.

  A real overachiever, Barb was valedictorian of her high school class, class president, first in her class at the Air Force Academy, Olmsted scholar, and now rising Secret Service agent. Indeed, she seemed immune to the pitfalls of life — a true golden girl in every respect. She investigated evil, but it had never touched her — until tonight.

  It was Thanksgiving eve. Everyone in Washington, D.C., had family activities on their minds, big plans for tomorrow. On loan to the FBI, Barb was waist-deep in a high-profile, complex investigation. It had been another frustrating day trying to catch the notorious Custos, a mysterious, elusive assassin who had been terminating targeted elected officials.

  Her lead-agent partner, Zach Bridger, had told her to go home at 5:00, then 5:30, and now 6:00 P.M. “Look, Barb, I have to stay here to brief the Director. There’s no reason we both should suffer. It’s a holiday tomorrow. Go home and relax. Have a couple glasses of Chardonnay for me. Be gone!”

  Reluctantly she gave in. She wasn’t trying to impress anyone by staying late. She was really into the case. She wanted to be the one to catch this baffling killer. She remembered Zach’s words: “The harder the case, the harder we work!” That was precisely how she felt, too. She consistently got into a state of flow working this investigation. She neatened her desk, brought Zach a cup of coffee, and left under protest. The coffee thing — she was at-heart a wise feminist who knew she needed to work hard on softening her tough image.

  *****

  Zach studied her graceful departure. The five-foot-seven, model-beautiful, 33-year-old agent was a sight to see — coming or going. After a long challenging day, she still looked as fresh and unrumpled as when she arrived in the morning. She moved with a charming elegance. And she’s damn smart, he reflected — shaking his head in profound admiration; I really should be working for her. Someday she might be the president — if she could control her sharp tongue. That thought brought Zach back to reality; Barb was human — a remarkable human.

  *****

  As Barb headed home in her pearl Prius, she felt a strange mixture of emotions. Sad led the list. She wasn’t going home for Thanksgiving. This was the first time in her life that she hadn’t been with her family for the holiday. The Custos investigation took precedence over everything. She had thought about asking Zach over for turkey, but he had announced earlier that he would be at the office all Thanksgiving day. Besides, he was her boss. Unease was the other emotion. She had a sixth sense that someone was watching her as she drove. Skilled as she was, she could not identify any physical evidence to back up that hunch. She checked all her mirrors again and once more falsely signaled a turn to activate the car’s rearview camera.

  *****

  Custos followed his target with great skill. He was such a professional that he could tail anyone and not get caught. He knew Special Agent Barb was sharp, so he kept reminding himself to be at his best and not get sloppy. His gray rented Toyota Camry had the advantage of blending in. In addition, he knew a lot of his target’s lifestyle and habits. At this point, he was confident he could drop back even further in traffic. He was 95% certain his target was heading to her apartment.

  Know thy enemy! He had periodically observed the two lead agents investigating him. It was now critical for him to make a decisive move. He had to close on his targets. After all, Special Agents Barbara Symanski and Zach Bridger had one purpose in life: nail Custos.

  He remembered the first time he was close to Barb several weeks ago in a Starbucks. She was, in the words of the barista, the tall soy skinny vanilla latte. Custos was disguised as an old man with a cane. Barb had felt sorry for him and begged him to go ahead of her in line. He remembered her perfume — the signature Vera Wang scent his ex-fiancée had worn. He remembered Barb had kindly put her warm hand on his shoulder at the time. She even paid for his double Americano. If she had only known …

  He caught himself approaching being emotional and counseled himself to remember: Always stay on mission. Everything else is irrelevant. Or join the poor bastards who forgot that — in jail or worse, he laughed to himself. She is the enemy; it’s her or me. Life picks the targets; you don’t — he consoled himself.

  In the dark, rainy night, he watched Barb pull into her apartment parking lot. “Let’s see, pretty young lady — you’ll change clothes, come back out, and head out for fun and drinks.” He liked betting with himself; he always won. Aware of many of Barb’s neighbors returning to their nests, he decided not to follow her — too many witnesses. Wait for the right time.

  *****

  Barb entered her apartment and went straight to the refrigerator. She put a frozen turkey meal in the microwave after puncturing its clear plastic seal. She noticed a flyer she had left on the kitchen counter a week ago about a party tonight. A friend had given it to her. She let her too-hot food cool while she showered and changed. She had to break out of the funk she was in — holiday blues. That party was a great idea!

  Even for parties, Barb found herself dressing conservatively. She broke the agent mold slightly. She donned a solid black long-sleeve, high-low hem mini dress and slipped on matching two-inch pumps. She enjoyed putting on earrings that she never wore at work. She pulled off her academy ring — too intimidating to insecure males. Finally, several puffs of Vera Wang perfume. She was blessed with needing no make-up.

  The lukewarm turkey meal was okay, but not as good as the rewarmed Egg McMuffin she had for breakfast. After tooth brushing and a mirror check, she was ready to go out. Oops, one more stop at the mirror to practice smiling. Friends told her she needed to do more of that to soften the “steely-eyed killer” look she had perfected on the job and at the Air Force Academy.

  She would not have smiled if she knew what was in store for her.

  *****

  Custos watched her exit her apartment. He had been right about his profiling. That made him happy — as happy as an assassin can get, that is.

  He waited a minute before he started up to follow her Prius. The magnetic GPS tracker he had put on Barb’s car gave him that luxury. He didn’t even need to keep her in sight initially. Now underway, he decided to close the gap in space and time. He really needed to observe where she went after parking her Prius.

  He was not surprised to see her pull into another apartment complex. Two for two, he won another bet with himself. She went upstairs where some men drinking beer hung out by the door — the ever-present volunteer “door guards” at parties. She entered a half-open door. Even on a cool winter night, party rooms get too hot. Typical young-person scene.

  After an hour, Custos sported a youthful disguise. He wore khaki chinos and a white open-collar Burberry London trim-fit dress shirt with tan Steve Madden Harpoon oxfords. His open black Northface jacket was spot-on for popular style. The rimless glasses were a nice added touch. He headed into the anonymity of the packed party. There w
ere two men for every one woman. Ages ranged from twenty-five to forty-five. He fit right in. He got a beer and hung out by the door talking sports with some of the men.

  Custos had already reverted to habit. He had calculated the top threat to him in the room and how to take him or her out. The six-foot-four guy built like a Samoan football player had a threatening air about him. The guy had scars on his knuckles. His arms had a long reach, and he was probably deceptively fast like a bear. Custos figured a groin punch followed by a shot in the nose would open the big guy up for a side snap kick at an open knee …. His mind had continued to size up anyone near enough to hit him and how to counter any threat. He was well trained.

  He caught glimpses of Barb here and there. He noticed she sipped her white wine ever so slowly, reluctant to lose control. She charmed everyone, with several men noticeably following her about the room and trying to act nonchalant. He waited for the right moment to close in.

  As the music from the sound system became louder, dancing and drinking increased and conversation declined. Barb mixed well, he observed, but she apparently had no real friends in the room. Later, he noticed Barb was loosening up and drinking more — maybe not in that order. After a seemingly endless stream of ear-splitting rock music, the first slow song came on — “The Way You Look Tonight.”

  Time to execute, Custos told himself. Seeing Barb was a little tipsy, he decided to ask her to slow-dance. Despite looking like a model, he noticed how firm she was with muscle — a tight body, he called it. His right hand felt her ribs through an estimated 14% body fat, consistent with being an elite female athlete. He calculated exactly where a stiletto should go in to kill her instantly. A cry of “fire” could create the ideal distraction and mayhem to mask his escape. With the crowded room in chaos, he could execute and be out of the room in seconds.

  The song ended. Custos looked deeply into Barb’s now unfocused eyes and thanked her for the dance. They broke their embrace. Barb smiled, “Have we met before?” “Start Me Up” began on the sound system. She could not hear his response, but she understood his shaking head and was taken in by his winning smile. She smiled back warmly.

  A shoving crowd pushed them apart. He moved to the side of the room and sipped his beer. After watching her more from afar, Custos decided it was time to leave. He had accomplished most of tonight’s mission: He found out as much as he could about his target at the party. As he was heading out the door, the ever-aware operator noticed a stocky, pinkie-ringed guy slipping something into Barb’s drink when she wasn’t looking. The image rattled around in his brain like a pinball as he kept reminding himself to stay on mission.

  As he approached his car in the parking lot, Custos did an about-face and headed back into the party. Answering random jeers by the “door guards,” he smiled and shouted above the music, “Yeah, I forgot my scarf — and my wife!” That was totally acceptable to the alcohol-impaired.

  He made his way to Barb, who was having trouble staying upright. Pinkie Finger, the roofier, was starting to molest her. The stocky guy protested as Custos scooped her up, like a groom picking up his bride. Crowd-wise, Custos cradled her with both arms and left with put-on laughter, “My wife really likes to party! Throw her purse in her lap, will ya? Thanks, mate!”

  He nodded to the inner voice: Keep you friends close… and your enemies closer.

  *****

  Custos drove unconscious Barb back to her apartment complex in his Camry. He used her key to get them into her apartment. He tucked her into bed and rolled her on her side so she would not aspirate potential vomitus. He positioned pillows and rolled blankets around her to keep her in place.

  He reminded himself to stay on mission. He donned rubber gloves and went through drawers and papers. He checked everywhere, including drawers, the refrigerator and medicine cabinet. So far, he knew Barb was a neat person, a dedicated athlete, a yoga student, and ate a remarkably healthy diet for a busy professional. A notebook in her purse gave him a sense that he had done yeoman’s work in eluding the investigators so far. That was confirmed when he found her personal diary with a series of recent days punctuated with curses next to the word “Custos.” He finished by eliminating any indication he had been there.

  As he started up the Camry, he thought, This will not stand! He headed back to the party. He did not yet have a plan because he had not seen the battlefield.

  The “door guards,” who never really joined the party inside, were so far gone that they did not even question his return. He acted relaxed and grabbed another beer. Pinkie Finger was still there. In microseconds, Custos rehearsed his fallback move. If Pinkie Finger offered too much resistance, Custos would box his ears, shoot a four-knuckled blow to the trachea, and shout “fire” — easy-peasy.

  As Custos carefully observed Pinkie Finger from across the room, he noticed the stocky guy had tried his trick on another young female, from the looks of things. Odds were that his victim would soon be on her way to the Middle East as a victim in the white slave trade. While the roofier leaned in to take advantage of his next compliant victim, Custos medicated the guy’s drink. He did so just when everyone turned to watch a couple dancing on the $4000 dining room table.

  In minutes, Custos was able to steer Pinkie Finger out of the party with remarkable ease, repeating loudly, “Come on, Bob, we’ve got to get you home. Lady with a baby! Make way!” Using the key fob panic button, he located the man’s red Nissan Altima. The guy’s wallet indicated he was a loan shark with a wife and two kids. He positioned the semi-conscious guy in the driver’s seat of the Altima. He started the car and left it in park. He tweaked the driver’s right leg position to race the engine. Now reaching through the driver’s open window, he shifted the gear handle into drive.

  The Altima leapt out of the parking lot, raced through the metal fence, and dove into the shallow end of the apartment complex’s heated pool. Air bags deployed. Steam rolled from the car’s hood. And the Altima’s horn blared like a train horn half-muffled by water. Apartment lights came on. Residents came out to see what was going on. The partiers came out to cheer and toast. Seven 911 calls went out for police and ambulance service.

  Custos faded away and smiled. He had that sense of ultimate justice that he loved and lived for. Reap the whirlwind, friend — he thought.

  *****

  As the sense of rightness in the world wore off, Custos realized he had more work to do. He drove his Camry to the nearest McDonald’s and drank coffee waiting for a taxi. The taxi took him to Barb’s Prius. He drove the Prius to Barb’s parking lot and removed the GPS tracker . He knew Barb would still be unconscious, so he entered the apartment with her key. He left it and the car fob on the kitchen counter. He checked on Barb. She had not moved. No sickness. He looked at her and smiled. Two real smiles in a day. That was a record for him — in the last twenty or so years.

  He left her apartment and called for a taxi to return him to his Camry at McDonald’s. As he drove back to his apartment in the rental car, Custos asked himself, “What’s up with you, buddy?”

  For a professional like Custos, there has to be a reason to be off-mission. He did accomplish his mission of learning more about the progress of investigation and one of his stalkers, but it had gone well beyond that. It was not like him to subconsciously keep her keys exiting her apartment. He realized he had come to deeply respect his pursuers. The more he watched them, the more he identified with them. And with Barb, it was even more than that. The way she glided into a room. The natural poise she projected. Her strong desire for control. The fragrance, too. Yes, she was a taller version of his ex-fiancee — a scaled-up almost-twin. The old biological imperative. The imprinting was indelible in his DNA. He had no choice but to protect Barb.

  And she has no choice but to catch me, he thought. Time to get back on mission, he reminded himself.

  END

  For those wanting to know more about Barbara Symanski, Zach Bridger, and Custos, please read Custos: Enemies Domestic by Jak
e Aaron — available on Kindle, iBooks, Nook, and other popular ebook platforms. “Custos: Stalk the Stalker” is a midquel that occurs during Custos: Enemies Domestic.

  About the Author

  The author is an award-winning essayist in competitions at college, the Freedoms Foundation, and a major command of the United States Air Force. He is a distinguished graduate of a United States service academy and was first in his MBA and MS engineering classes. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross as an aircraft commander in combat. Later, he was the first pilot to land his series jet on McMurdo Sound’s ice runway in Antarctica. He served as an instructor pilot, flight examiner, acquisitions program manager, engineer, senior command-and-control director, and squadron commander. In a subsequent career, he was a top territory manager for several leading international medical companies.

 

 

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